Tap Into America

Your brain is swimming in fluid. It's the same fluid that runs through your spine. The doctors recommended a spinal tap to check my spinal fluid to make sure there weren't any other tumors floating around that they'd missed. They wanted to have a complete picture of my situation before they did much more.

Up to this point, I knew a helluva lot more about Spinal Tap, the movie, than spinal tap, the procedure. All I knew was that they were supposed to be excruciating. Hooray. Off I went.

I did the usual change into the drafty cotton apron thing and got wheeled around on one of those beds you always see on TV. Everyone I met was very serious and somber. I wasn't expecting Rip Taylor to be hooting and hollering, throwing confetti everywhere as I was wheeled into the room but damn.

Once I was in the room they asked me my name and birthday for about the tenth time and explained the procedure. They'd insert a needle into my spine and withdraw some fluid they could later use to check for cancer cells. Gulp. Okay.

An older doctor in his early sixties came in and introduced himself. I wish I could remember his name because it turns out the man's a maestro when it comes to spinal taps. More on that later.

They asked me to turn over on the bed and hang onto the big steel bars mounted at the end -- the same kind you see in restrooms and other areas for handicapped people. I'd need those to hang onto while they tilted the table to get my spinal fluid. Turns out your spinal fluid's more like corn syrup or tree sap than water -- very viscous and thick. Tilting the table allows the fluid to flow a little faster. Gulp again.

Oh, and if I wanted, I could just look up on this screen at the end of the bed and watch the needle go into my spine. Gulpity-gulp.

Finally, we meet.

After a few more vision and balance tests, Dr. Greene got out the MRI scans. It was the first time my wife and I had a chance to see the tumor. It was a white round mass in the center of my brain. Dr. Greene explained that that was good -- a round tumor was easier to kill than one that had tendrils that wrapped around the folds of the brain.

When you've got a brain tumor you take your good news when you can get it.

The bad news was that this was in the very center of my brain, making it very risky for them to try to go after it surgically. One wrong move and I could be blind, lose motor functions or even die. Dr. Greene, though a highly-skilled neurosurgeon, was not in favor of surgery.

However.

There was a type of treatment that went after tumors of this type; ones that were hard to reach. It essentially shot highly-focused beams of radiation from multiple angles that converged on the spot to kill the tumor. Instead of carving your brain up like Swiss cheese, the beams were only effective/dangerous (depending on if you're a glass half-full/half-empty kinda person) when they met. If this was the path they were going to go down, I'd only get one treatment, one shot of radiation.

A ray of hope!

Howling at the Moon

Finally, the day came to meet Dr. Greene. It ended up that he, like many specialists, was in great demand. So much so that he'd spend a day in one office, then the next day in another. I later found out that this sort of rotation isn't all that uncommon.

Of course this meant that we drove to the wrong office for our first meeting. After a harried rerouting, we found ourselves in Dr. Greene's office. Despite the complaints of the anonymous Internet poster, the office looked fine. Really.

He turned out to be a nice guy. He was an average, doctor-ish, nondescript looking guy. Quiet, but don’t you want someone calm doing your brain surgery? I don't want Rip Taylor digging around in my skull.


He had me do a few “look this way” type of exercises, then asked me to take off my shoes. My wife and I exchanged glances for a second. Hers was one of terror.

A word about my feet. They are flat. Really flat. I’ve worn arch supports (actually the same ones) since 1984. I have calluses on my toes that are so thick you can strike a match on them. My toenails, depending on when you catch me, often look more like talons. As they did when Dr. Greene asked to see my feet.

“Oh God,” my wife said.

“What?”

“Your feet,” she laughed, then shook her head. “They’re so nasty.”

“But they’re my only form of defense against predators,” I said.

An ever-so-slight smile flashed across Dr. Greene’s face. He asked me to perform a few more movements to determine what type of damage the tumor had done. Since it was in the center of my brain where all sorts of functions converged, anything could happen. Turns out I was okay for the most part. My balance and motor skills were okay.

Only thing is that he wanted to get a second opinion. He referred me to Dr. Thompson, the radiation oncologist who would be part of the team that would treat me. Dr. Greene and Dr. Thompson were going to compare notes and discuss the various methods of treatment to figure out what was best.

The Plot Thickens

About a half hour after I got back to work, Dr. Andersen called. They had some questions on the MRI and wanted to get another scan, this time with color. The dye would give them a better picture of what was going on in my head. Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t take any more time than the last one did. I went back.


Same drill. I put my stuff in the locker, went into the room and got on the table. This time I asked for a rock station. The attendant took my hand and found a vein.

“Some people say they get a weird taste in their mouth when they get the dye injected,” she said. “But other than that you shouldn’t have any symptoms or a reaction,” she said as she injected me.

Sure enough, about sixty seconds later a strange, metallic taste bloomed in my mouth. It slowly subsided and we started the scan as John Mellencamp sang about pink houses for you and me.

There was an awkward silence as she unhooked me from the machine and we walked to the locker area, so I turned and asked her: “do you ever mess with people and tell them that everything’s going to taste like pepperoni for two days afterwards?” Either she didn’t see the humor in it or she was taken aback. She didn’t laugh. She just gave me this confused “what the hell was that about?” look and said “Uh, no.” I thanked her, got my stuff and left.
This time the drive back to work was a little more stressful; a brain tumor was starting to sound like a strong possibility. I didn’t really know much about them other than the fact that they were bad, really bad, and that you could die from them. Whenever someone got a brain tumor on TV, that was it. They were dead within minutes. If I had one, was it the size of a grape? An orange?

I wasn’t really having too bad of a time, all things considered. I wasn’t having headaches or seizures, the two symptoms I most associated with brain tumors. I wasn't dizzy. Other than the eyesight issues I felt fine. Deep down I thought it’d wind up being something goofy, like I ended up with the wrong eyeglasses prescription or something equally minor.


I’d been back at my desk all of forty minutes when the phone rang. It was Dr. Andersen again. “Kyle, we looked at the second set of MRI scans,” he began in a measured, serious tone, “and it looks like you have a small tumor in the center of your brain. It’s in the pineal region.” He calmly explained that it was still relatively small – about the size of a gumball – but that its location explained why I was having vision problems. Essentially, it was taking up space normally reserved for optical functions and it was putting pressure on the optic nerve so things weren’t functioning the way they should.

Predictably, my next set of questions were along the lines of “how the hell are we going to get this thing out?”

“I’m going to refer to you to Dr. George Greene,” he said. “He’s one of the best neurologists in town. If I had to see a neurologist, he’s the one I’d see,” he said.

Turns Out There's a Shitload of Words That Rhyme With "Outlaw"

I went to see my primary physician, Dr. Andersen. He asked me all the usual questions – how had I been, any illnesses, etc -- and we did the old “turn and cough” bit. Everything looked pretty good though he did want me to get a colonoscopy soon due to my family history. Fine. Then I mentioned the vision thing. He didn’t offer any conclusions or ideas about what could be causing it. He had me look left and right a few times, asked if I’d had headaches or dizziness, then paused for a moment and thought to himself.


He asked what I was doing that afternoon. Did I have time for a quick MRI?

A couple hours later I was in a medical imaging facility in a strip mall. With the flat screen TVs, tasteful tile and coffee bar it felt more like an upscale salon than the place where they scanned you for all sorts of tumors, growths and other malignancies.

After about five minutes, my name was called and I was led to a little wall of lockers. I was instructed to remove my glasses, watch, and all other metal objects. I put my stuff in a locker and walked into the MRI room. I was greeted by a massive white machine with a donut-shaped hole in the center. In front of the hole was a long, rather narrow extension that served as a bed. Had I known this was going to be the largest MRI I’d ever get to experience I would’ve taken a mental note to enjoy myself more.

The attendant produced a mesh hockey goalie-type mask and some earphones. She put the earphones on me and attached the mask to the bed. She said the procedure would take about 15 minutes and asked if I had a musical preference. I said I didn’t really care. I was treated to 15 minutes of new country. Another mistake I would not make again. Or so I thought.


She left the room and I slowly slid into the MRI. I couldn’t see much through the mask and couldn’t move my head. I’ve never really had problems with claustrophobia and this didn’t really change that. But I could see how someone who was uncomfortable in tight or small places could have a hard time. I tried to relax and settle in.

The machine clicked and whirred. There was no discernible rhythm or pattern to it, but it wasn’t annoying and the music masked most of the sound. I tried to stay still and concentrate on Indian Outlaws and life on the Chatahoochee.

Then, I was done. I felt fine. I asked the attendant if she saw anything and she said she couldn’t really comment on the MRI. That was the doctor’s job. Fair enough.

Not thinking much of it, I went back to work. I mean, really, what are the odds that I’d get a brain tumor? Only people in melodramatic Lifetime movies on Saturday afternoons get brain cancer. Colon cancer was another story. Considering all the other health issues I’d inheirited from my father (allergies, asthma, etc) I figured that was pretty much a given. But a brain tumor? My dad was associated with the other end of the body.

Onetwothreefour

It started in the car.

When I’d look over my shoulder to change lanes I’d have trouble actually seeing what was going on for a second. It was as if there were two images and my eyes had to adjust – sort of like a Viewmaster the first time you try it. There would be two independent images at first, and then they'd slowly coalesce into one. I only noticed this phenomenon when I looked to the far left or right. When I looked straight ahead, whether I was driving or standing still, everything was fine. I chalked it up to the new glasses. We had a vision plan that I hadn’t taken full advantage of at work and I figured I could use a new pair. I’d gotten them a few months earlier. Oh well.

Except it didn’t get better. It was starting to get irritating. I finally mentioned it to Amy, a co-worker. “You better get that checked out,” she said. “That can be a sign of a brain tumor.”

“It’s not a tumah!” I joked in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger/Kindergarten Cop voice. I mean, come on, what're the odds of that? Only people on soap operas and cell phone users get brain tumors. I wasn't on a soap and I didn't have a cell phone. Couldn't be me.

Like most men, the only time I ever made a trip to the doctor was when something was really wrong – if it was a cold or flu or some immediate, obvious thing. I hadn’t had a physical in years. I mean, why? I was in my late 30's, ate a pretty good diet and worked out on a semi-regular basis. Why go if there isn't a problem?

But the potential for cancer was there. Two years earlier I attempted to reconnect with my biological father and over the course of our brief email exchange he'd told me about a litany of potentially heredity health issues, culminating with colon cancer, which had killed his mother. He was now battling it himself, along with pancreatic cancer.

“You really should get tested,” he had said in an email.

I blew it off, thinking I was too young to worry about any of this and that it wouldn’t happen to me.

But still, the eye thing was really getting irritating.

I made an appointment.